


Like A Secret in Your Throat

by mirawonderfulstar



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Chubby Aziraphale, Fluff and Smut, Mildly Dubious Consent, Other, Porn With Plot, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Trans Male Character, Vampire Sex, Vampires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2019-02-10
Packaged: 2019-08-23 06:09:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16613402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirawonderfulstar/pseuds/mirawonderfulstar
Summary: "Crowley thought, in the moments as his vision went black, that maybe he’d been courting this all along. Normal, healthy people don’t choose to devote their lives to hunting vampires. "





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Look I try to keep everything I write as in-character as possible but like. This is a vampire smut fic named after a My Chemical Romance lyric. Manage your expectations.

Crowley woke with a jerk, his eyes snapping wide. For a moment, he felt feral with it, ready to jump up and defend himself, reaching for the crossbow above his head. The beam of sunlight on the wall across from his bed calmed him slightly, and he relaxed again, pressing a hand over his racing heart. He let his eyes drift close again as he breathed deeply.

It was the same dream as always. The one with the blood, and the screaming, and him cowering in the pantry with a fist in his mouth trying not to make a sound as the vampire in the kitchen tore through his parents like so many microwave dinners. He’d had it on and off for the last twenty years and he probably always would. That wasn’t something you forgot. Not that Crowley hadn’t tried. Pills, liquor, needles, therapy, and liquor again hadn’t banished it.

With a heavy sigh Crowley rolled out of bed and over to the window. It was still early afternoon. He’d only been asleep for a few hours but there was no point in trying to go down again, not after that. Might as well shower and feed himself and find something to do until the sun went down.

An hour later Crowley sat down on his clean white couch in his clean white living room with a bowl of leftover pasta and a spinach salad for good measure, and flipped on the tv. The musical transition for the local news blared out for a moment before Crowley changed the channel with a shudder. He put on a sitcom, something mindless and light where the most pressing problems were interpersonal dramas. He ate his food, and flipped through the notebook he’d left on the coffee table.

Hmm. The disappearance on Regent Street was almost certainly a suicide but the two further east were promising. Neither of them had been particularly high risk. Newt Pulsifer had been an accounting student from a good family and he didn’t have any debts that Crowley could find. Agnes Nutter was harder to tell. She’d been part of a coven (witches, not vampires) and they generally took care of their own. He wondered if they’d avenge her. He’d have to drop in on Anathema at some point and see if she knew anything. And maybe give Aziraphale a call.

Crowley looked through the notebook for a long time, The Golden Girls continuing to play in the background. Eventually it got dark.

 

Aziraphale was tired. He was frequently tired these days. Soho just wasn’t what it used to be when it came to hunting grounds. The criminal underbelly of London had changed since the 1600s when he’d come here from the small town where he’d lived and died, but he’d sooner cook himself a big garlic omelet than abandon the bookshop and move elsewhere.

Aziraphale wasn’t his real name, but once upon a time he’d belonged to a coven, and that was what they’d called him so that was what he called himself. They were all gone now. Michael, Gabriel, Uriel, Raphael… Aziraphale had thought it was sort of lovely, at the time, a group of angels. He’d wanted to think of them as good because it helped him think of himself as good. But they hadn’t been, not really. They’d just been… people. Not angels, not devils, just a different sort of people. And they’d spread out as the world got bigger, going to North America and southern Asia and wherever else they’d ended up. It was just Aziraphale left in London now, Aziraphale and the younger vampires. He loathed them.

But loathing or not, he hadn’t fed in several days. It was almost bad enough that he’d considered going to the hospital and robbing the blood bank, but people—humans—needed that blood. What _he_ needed was to find a good juicy murderer, a rapist, he’d even have settled for a CEO if he could kill one of them without attracting attention. Maybe he’d eat Madame Tracy’s rude neighbor after all. A bit Thomas Harris for his tastes, he thought with a smirk, but times were desperate.

Aziraphale walked to the door of the bookshop and peered out from between the blinds. The sun had set at last and it would be safe to go out soon. He just needed to decide where he was headed. With a small sigh, he picked up the phone by the door and called a familiar cell-phone number.

 

Crowley put on a silver cross and a pair of earrings to match, pushing his hair back from his face with a critical glare in the mirror before slinging his bag over his shoulder. He really needed to cut it, it was probably a fire hazard this long.

He didn’t bother locking the door as he went out. Anybody who might try to visit Crowley couldn’t have gotten in without an invitation, anyway.

Anathema had known Agnes Nutter personally, and was very shaken up when Crowley banged on her door around 9pm. “Oh, Crowley, thank goodness.” She pulled him inside and into a tight hug, which Crowley returned with a sigh, pressing his face into her hair.

“Do you know who did it?” He asked when she let go and headed into the kitchen to make tea.

“I wish I did, they’d be hexed faster than they could blink.” Anathema said darkly, handing him a mug. Chamomile with honey. Crowley sat down across from his friend and set his bag by his feet. “But I’ve got nothing, just a time and place of death.” Her hands trembled on her mug and she took a drink.

“Well, don’t worry.” Crowley said with forced joviality. “I’ll find them.”

“I know you will.” Anathema said. She didn’t look reassured. “You look like hell, if you don’t mind me saying.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow over his mug of tea.

“More than usual.” Anathema amended. “Been sleeping badly?”

“A bit.” Crowley admitted.

“I can give you some valerian, if you’d like.”

Crowley nodded, knowing that whatever she gave him he probably wouldn’t take it. Anathema’s head tilted to the side and she smiled, small and sad.

“You need to take better care of yourself.”

“I’m trying.” Crowley said, then frowned at her dubious expression. “I really am, Anathema, I just…”

“I know.” She patted his hand. “So. Do you have a lead on whoever killed Agnes, or a theory, or anything?”

Crowley reached into his bag and pulled out his notebook, which he passed over to her with a warning not to drop any of the many extra papers sticking out.

She looked down at his notes and then back up at him, frowning. “You know who’s shop these deaths were near, right?”

“Yes, I’m going to see Aziraphale this evening.” He told her and her face tightened.

“Do you really trust him?”

“There’s no reason I shouldn’t.”

“Crowley.” Said Anathema in an exasperated tone, and Crowley sighed.

“I know how it sounds to say he’s different, but… he’s different.”

“How can he be?” Anathema said, quietly. “And how do you know he didn’t do this? It’s his neighborhood.”

“I trust him.” Crowley answered simply, finishing off his tea.

Crowley was a vampire hunter. He specialized in burnings and projectile weapons (crossbow, holy water grenade, sometimes a well-aimed mirror did the trick if there was enough light left in the day and he happened to get lucky). You needed a good bit of arm muscle to pull off a beheading and even more to do the old stake-through-the-heart. He still carried a small axe and a number of stakes, just in case.

He also carried a notebook full of dates and locations and newspaper clippings and notes scribbled in his small, spiky handwriting. He’d gone to school for investigative journalism for two years before he’d had to drop out. People fell through the cracks, sometimes, and those people made the perfect victims. Nobody missed them, and nobody but others like them reported them missing. Follow the food supply, find the monsters. That was what he did.

Oh, he’d had to burn down the occasional “abandoned” building, or steal the odd bit of food and medical tape from the odd corner store, but. Cracks. Falling. He did his best to make up for it.

And sometimes, his best meant working with the only other person he’d ever met who seemed to view the world as he did. Just because said person happened to be a vampire didn’t make him any less valuable of an ally.

Crowley had met Aziraphale nearly ten years ago, when he was in his mid-twenties and was three months into the coke habit he’d thankfully managed to kick. He’d been running from something in a dark back alley and stumbled, and then, suddenly, Aziraphale was there, between him and the other vampire. After the fight was over Aziraphale had gathered him up, told him he stank of self-neglect, and taken him to a hospital. It wasn’t until weeks later that he’d seen him again, and told him that he was glad to see Crowley had stopped with the hard drugs. Crowley had asked how he’d known that, and Aziraphale had admitted he could smell it on him.

That had been a weird conversation, but they’d arrived at a mutual arrangement: Aziraphale let Crowley know of any other vampiric activity in the city, and in exchange, Crowley let him carry on eating murderers and rapists and pedophiles and the other non-supernatural scum of London. They met every once in a while at Aziraphale’s bookshop to exchange information, and that was where Crowley was headed tonight.

 

Aziraphale had consulted his records, taken a look through the papers, even had a word with that completely insufferable millennial[1] who frequented the intimates shop across the street from Aziraphale’s property. Agnes Nutter’s death hadn’t been vampiric activity, which meant that he should probably get in touch with Crowley and let him know, in case he had any plans to go out hunting tonight. He’d called Crowley’s cell and requested he meet him at the shop, and Crowley had agreed. Now all there was to do was wait.

He didn’t have to wait long. Crowley showed up, punctual as always, around 10pm, his cross necklace and earrings securely in place. Aziraphale smiled at him as he held the door open for him, and Crowley smiled back, a bit tiredly.

“You seem drained, if you’ll pardon the pun.” Aziraphale said as they headed to the back room. Crowley laughed.

“Maybe a little but not in the way you’re thinking. Been having nightmares again.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale really didn’t know what to say to that. He knew Crowley had dreamed his whole life about the vampire attack that had left him an orphan, but he didn’t know and didn’t _want_ to know any more about it. There were some things that deserve to be buried, Aziraphale thought, his fist clenching as he took in the dark circles under Crowley’s eyes. Some creatures, too.

“Tell me what you know about Agnes Nutter and Newt Pulsifer.” Crowley prompted. Aziraphale blinked, coming back to the present, and started to talk.

Half an hour later they had established that whoever had killed the pair had to be a human who has so far done an _extremely_ good job of evading Aziraphale’s network of information. So good, in fact, that Aziraphale was a little bit frustrated. He said as much as they got up from their chairs and Crowley picked up his bag. “It’s just rather unfortunate for me, not having more to go on, you understand.”

Crowley nodded, fastening the buckle closed. Then he swore, and Aziraphale inhaled sharply, the scent of blood heavy in the air.

There was one perfect crimson drop on Crowley’s finger where he’d sliced it on his bag’s buckle. Crowley looked at him, his eyes going wide.

For a moment, they stared at each other, Crowley watching Aziraphale’s chest fail to rise and fall, Aziraphale’s eyes flickering over the pulse point in Crowley’s neck, the cut finger held out before him like he didn’t know what to do with it, his slightly flushed cheeks. Then Aziraphale cleared his throat.

“I should go.” Crowley said.

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes, I think you had better. I haven’t eaten.”

 

Oh. That was… bad. Crowley’s throat went very dry. He reminded himself that was bad and wondered, not for the first time since meeting Aziraphale, if the things he’d read about vampires and hypnotism were true. He didn’t think so, you could usually weed out what was fact and what was fiction about the undead with enough exposure, and Crowley certainly had that. It was just this particular vampire, and Crowley wasn’t sure if that made it better or worse.

“Leave, Crowley.” Aziraphale said, more forcefully, still not moving, eyes still flickering between Crowley’s hand and his face, and Crowley swallowed as something started to uncurl inside him, something he’d felt about Aziraphale for a while but hadn’t wanted to admit to himself. He raised his hand to his mouth and slowly, not taking his eyes off Aziraphale’s, licked the drop of blood off his finger.

Aziraphale jerked forward, an expression of longing on his face for the briefest of moments before he got ahold of himself. “Crowley, stop.” Aziraphale whispered. Crowley stepped forward.

“Tell me it’s just because you’re hungry.” Crowley said in a low voice. Aziraphale let out a breath as one of Crowley’s hands came to rest on his waist. “Tell me it’s just because you’re…”

“It isn’t.” Aziraphale said, and Crowley felt a shiver run up his spine. “Dear boy, I…”

Crowley closed the remaining gap between them and kissed Aziraphale. He wondered if the vampire could still taste the blood in his mouth, and how much of a factor that played in the way Aziraphale was now pressing up against him like he’d been waiting for the invitation for years. They staggered backwards together, until Crowley felt his shoulderblades hit the wall of Aziraphale’s back room. He leaned his head against the wall as well and Aziraphale chased him, kissing him deeper. His hands where everywhere, suddenly, undoing the strap on his bag and letting it fall to the floor by their feet.

They hadn’t stopped kissing, and Crowley could feel Aziraphale’s sharp teeth in his mouth and _fuck_ , that was hotter than he’d expected. Crowley let out a whimper as Aziraphale’s hands pushed his jacket off his shoulders, sliding against the thin material of the shirt underneath, brushing over his nipples.

Suddenly Aziraphale flinched back, panting, his dark eyes roaming over Crowley’s face in a panic. Crowley stared at him in mingled concern and frustration for a moment before he realized Aziraphale was backing away, clutching his own hand, where a nasty red mark was blooming on his fingertips.

“Oh, fuck, Aziraphale, I’m sorry.” Crowley said, making the connection. He reached up and undid the clasp on his necklace, then threw both cross and earrings to the side.

The brief interruption seemed to have given Aziraphale all the leeway he needed to start second-guessing the whole thing. “My dear, I really must insist you go home before I do something you regret.”

“No.” Crowley said, as clearly and steadily as he could considering the fact he was still trying to catch his breath from that kiss.

“I truly don’t want to throw you out, but—”

“Then don’t.” Crowley said, stepping forward and taking Aziraphale’s injured hand in both of his, pressing a kiss to his burnt fingers. Aziraphale shivered and closed his eyes.

“I can… try to be careful. I can’t guarantee I won’t hurt you.”

“I don’t need you to.” Crowley pulled Aziraphale back towards him and Aziraphale came, haltingly, hesitatingly, until he was right up against Crowley again and Crowley could resume kissing him.

He let his hands slide up along Aziraphale’s neck and into his thick hair, let his thumb stroke over Aziraphale’s own pulse point as the vampire’s mouth moved along his jaw. “I want to make love to you.” He murmured in Crowley’s ear, and Crowley’s knees went rather weak.

“Take me.”

“Not here.” One of Aziraphale’s hands was sliding across the front of his trousers and Crowley arched into the touch, trying to rub against him. “Upstairs.”

 

Aziraphale’s flat above the shop was absolutely nothing like Crowley would have expected from a vampire but exactly what he expected from Aziraphale. There was a short narrow hallway with a worn wood floor, and a bedroom against the side of the building with one wall that tapered into slanted ceiling. There was a double bed with a curling white metal headboard, and a small vanity covered in boxes of trinkets. The window out into the street was hung with a yellowing lace curtain and the only light in the room came from the old lamp on the desk, stacked with yet more books and a small statue of an angel. Crowley’s eyes roamed around as Aziraphale deposited him on the bed.

“What are you thinking, dear?”

“That I want you to get on with pounding me into your mattress.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale made a clucking sound with his tongue.

“Don’t be crude.” Aziraphale said, but he joined Crowley on the bed, where he slid off his trousers and pants and began unbuttoning his shirt nonetheless.

Crowley watched him with his voice caught in his throat, unable to take his eyes off the expanse of Aziraphale’s skin slowly being revealed to him. Everything about Aziraphale said “soft” to Crowley, it was something he’d always rather liked about his friend. Soft curls framing his round face, gentle hands, warm and unfashionable clothes covering his pudgy middle. There was absolutely nothing about Aziraphale that looked even slightly predatory, and Crowley had never been able to determine if this was intentional camouflage or just the way Aziraphale was[2].

Crowley made to start taking off his own clothes as well and Aziraphale stopped him, nudging him to lay back on the bed and let Aziraphale do it himself. _Like unwrapping a gift_ , Crowley thought, somewhat hazily, as Aziraphale unbuttoned his shirt and pressed a brief kiss to Crowley’s chest. He shivered under the touch.

“Tell me how you want me.” Aziraphale murmured, looking down at Crowley with such tenderness Crowley felt momentarily breathless.

“I’d have been happy with you fucking me against the wall in your kitchen, Aziraphale.” He said after he’s got his voice back.

“I see.” Aziraphale’s hand stroked over his hip, caressing. “You _want_ me to be rough with you?”

“Yes.”  

Aziraphale nodded, and then, before Crowley had fully registered what was happening, Aziraphale was on him. His tongue, so hot, was licking his way into Crowley’s mouth and oh, there were the teeth again. Crowley moaned as Aziraphale insinuated a hand between their torsos.

“So eager.” Aziraphale said in a breath against his lips, and Crowley writhed under him, trying to get some friction where he needed it. A moment later Aziraphale had spread Crowley’s legs apart and shoved into him.

Crowley let out a cry of mingled pleasure and pain, squeezing his eyes shut and feeling Aziraphale let out a breathy sound above him. As Crowley panted and tried to adjust to the sensation of being so full, Aziraphale kissed his jaw, his neck, the wet heat of his mouth pressed against Crowley’s fluttering pulse.

“My dear boy…” Aziraphale sighed, “do you have any idea what you _smell_ like?”

Crowley moaned. “ _Move_ , Aziraphale.” He said, unable to keep the pleading edge out of his voice, and Aziraphale’s hips pulled back before slamming into him. Crowley gasped. “ _Harder_.”

Aziraphale went again, and again, and soon they settled into a rhythm, Crowley’s legs coming to rest around Aziraphale's hips and his hands scrabbling for purchase on Aziraphale’s back before settling on the soft flesh on the sides of his belly. Crowley felt so completely undone that it was all he could do to hold on as Aziraphale fucked him, his teeth grazing Crowley’s throat every now and then.

“You can—” Crowley began, and was cut off as Aziraphale lifted Crowley’s hips slightly, angling them differently and making Crowley’s vision white out with pleasure as his cock dragged over some spot inside him. “Oh, _god,_ Aziraphale.”

“My Crowley.” Aziraphale said breathlessly, and Crowley felt something warm and completely unrelated to the heat pooling in his gut spread through him.

“You can feed.” Crowley said after another moment, his words jerked out of him by their rough movements. “Aziraphale, I want—”

Aziraphale let out a pained sound and Crowley felt his teeth sink into him. All of a sudden he was extremely, completely conscious of the way his heart was racing, pumping his blood through him and out of the puncture marks under Aziraphale’s mouth. He was so close he was shaking with it, trembling as Aziraphale fucked him and drank him and it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt in his life but Crowley _never wanted it to end_.

Aziraphale was coming, suddenly, spilling inside him as he drew the blood from Crowley’s neck, and Crowley’s eyes rolled back into his head with the force of his own orgasm. He felt so heavy, now, so tired, and so deliciously used. Crowley thought, in the moments as his vision went black, that maybe he’d been courting this all along. Normal, healthy people don’t choose to devote their lives to hunting vampires. Normal, healthy people didn’t fall in love with one. The last thing Crowley thought, before he slipped into oblivion, was that there were worse ways to go than at Aziraphale’s hands.

 

Aziraphale felt the moment Crowley came and the moment shortly after that he slipped into unconsciousness. With a very great effort he forced himself to stop drinking and pulled back to look at Crowley’s face. Sweet, beautiful Crowley. His dear thing. He looked utterly spent and Aziraphale pressed a chaste kiss to his lips before clambering off him and heading to the bathroom for some washcloths.

After he’d cleaned himself and Crowley up he tucked his friend into bed, checking his pulse. Completely normal. He was breathing deeply, steadily, and Aziraphale allowed himself to sit on the edge of the bed and watch him for a few moments. He looked younger in sleep, but oddly stronger. Like the face he wore when he was awake tired him. Aziraphale thought of how fragile he seemed sometimes, and how his very existence and the way he chose to live belied that fragility.

The first hints of dawn were beginning to shine through the window, a pale grey light that didn’t yet fill the room. He ought to close the shutters outside if he intended to come back up here. With a snap of a finger, it was done. Brushing Crowley’s hair back from his forehead, Aziraphale stood up and headed downstairs. He hadn’t cooked for anyone besides himself in years but he thought he could probably manage a tray of breakfast.

 

 

 

 

[1] A millennial is a vampire who was turned after the beginning of the new millennium.

[2] It was both.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More self-indulgent vampire smut, yeah BOIIIIII. Human!Crowley is trans because I said so. 
> 
> Please note this chapter has some mentions of menstruation, and therefore blood, and touches briefly on Crowley’s dysphoria surrounding said topic. Read at your own discretion.

Crowley gasped as he collapsed back against the bed. Before he’d even had a chance to reorient himself, Aziraphale was lifting his legs and arranging them on his shoulders, spreading Crowley’s thighs as he knelt at the end of the bed.

One of these days they should probably stop doing this, Crowley thought, watching the hunger on Aziraphale’s face. One of these days it was going to go too far, and somebody was going to get hurt, but in the mean time Crowley couldn’t look away from Aziraphale’s expression, the way his teeth seemed to take up all of the smile he was now giving Crowley from between his own legs.

“Have I told you recently,” Aziraphale began in a murmur, almost reverent, “how much I like your cunt?” He ran his tongue along a particularly sensitive spot on Crowley’s labia and Crowley shivered.

“Not—” he gasped as Aziraphale added lips and teeth to the attention he was giving Crowley’s skin, “not recently, no.”

“Terribly negligent of me.” Aziraphale said, before he buried his face in the heat of Crowley’s core and Crowley threw his head back and moaned.

The soft curls on Aziraphale’s head brushed against Crowley’s thighs, and he buried his hands in them, more because he knew Aziraphale liked it than because he actually needed to direct him.

Aziraphale had gotten incredibly, mind-blowingly good at this in the few months since Crowley’s menstrual cycle, mostly banished by hrt, reasserted itself inconveniently while they’d been having dinner together. Aziraphale had looked at Crowley with concern and hesitation, and asked if he knew he was bleeding. He hadn’t, and he’d fully intended to apologize and hurry home, but Aziraphale had been gracious and curious and somehow they’d ended up in the flat above Aziraphale’s shop, Aziraphale’s head between his legs, lapping up blood and bringing Crowley off in what he’d been amazed to find was something that really, really worked for him. Crowley wasn’t usually very dysphoric, but bleeding, as rare as it had become, did tend to shoot that through the roof. He’d never even attempted to have sex with another partner during, but then, Aziraphale wasn’t another partner.

The slight tug of skin beneath sharp teeth reminded Crowley of that fact as he came back to the present with a moan. Aziraphale hummed approvingly and Crowley’s hands clenched in his hair as his tongue did something fantastic.

“That’s good, angel.” He gasped as he rocked his hips forward, straining, so _close_ with Aziraphale’s mouth on him.

Aziraphale pulled back with a wet sound and Crowley responded with frustration, looking down at Aziraphale’s face and feeling his heart stutter in his chest at the dishevelment of his normally tidy hair and his eyes unfocused without his glasses.

“My dear,” Aziraphale said, all shivery reverence again, “I wonder if I might…”

“As long as you keep doing that thing with your tongue, you can do whatever you want.” Crowley said in a rush that was half impatience and half the thrill of knowing what was coming next. Aziraphale hummed again and pulled Crowley closer, his hands on Crowley’s hips.

Crowley closed his eyes at the prick of pleasurepain that shot through him as Aziraphale bit him, wanting more, wanting all of it. He was already so wet that the sensation of blood trickling didn’t register as anything noteworthy beyond the way Aziraphale followed it, sucking him like it was the only thing in the world he wanted. One hand slid up Crowley’s thigh and settled on the patch of hair below his stomach, and Crowley placed his own hand over top, squeezing lightly, encouraging Aziraphale to continue.

As Aziraphale drank, Crowley crested and broke, arching his back and shuddering through his orgasm, his voice a too-fast stream of praise and blasphemies and keening, babbling sounds. Aziraphale sighed, lost in his own pleasure, and Crowley’s legs convulsed on his shoulders, and oh _god_ , he wasn’t stopping. Crowley came again with Aziraphale’s mouth still hot on him, shaking and swearing.

After the third wave hit him he squeezed Aziraphale’s hand, sure that if he didn’t stop now he’d shake Crowley to pieces far before he got to a point where he’d drained him a dangerous amount. Aziraphale swiped his tongue over the small puncture buried in the folds of Crowley’s cunt and it healed with a sting like an antiseptic. When he looked up at Crowley, his chin covered in slick and the tiniest trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth, Crowley threw his head back against the bed again and started to laugh.

“Dare I ask?” Aziraphale said with a long-suffering expression, but his tone was warmth itself, fond and full of love and fierce desire.

“Come up here.” Crowley said, tugging Aziraphale onto the bed by his hair. Crowley kissed him, loving the taste of himself on Aziraphale’s mouth and the dangerous edge of his teeth against his tongue. He wiped at Aziraphale’s chin with the corner of the sheets.

“Are you up for more?” Aziraphale asked when Crowley had moved on to kissing his neck.

Crowley responded with a hand on Aziraphale’s chest, much more focused on sucking a hickey into his skin than on anything he might be saying.

“It’s just—oh, _my_ _dear_ —I would very much like to fuck you.” Aziraphale said, gasping as Crowley’s hand slid down to palm at his cock.

“Insatiable, you are.” Crowley said, which earned him a nip to the ear and a breathy moan as Crowley worked his hand into Aziraphale’s pants.

“Terribly.” Aziraphale said on a gasp. “The things I want to do to you…”

“Tell me.” Crowley said as he slid Aziraphale’s pants down and spread his legs, angling his hips.

He did.

* * *

 

A/N: mercuryhatter wrote fic of this fic, you can find it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17730908). 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I’m still trying to figure out if it always, always, always has to hurt.” –Moderation, Florence + The Machine
> 
> This chapter is all angst & h/c there is no smut here unfortunately.

They were walking through London together, holding hands, Aziraphale fancying he could feel the warmth of Crowley’s touch through their layers of gloves and despite the cold night air. Winter meant longer nights and more time spent out and about, but it also meant an increased difficulty finding food. Crime went up when it was hot and dropped when it was cold, and probably had for as long as there had been cities and crime and people. But he could take Crowley to the theater in the late afternoon, and out to dinner in the evening, and that made it worth it.

Aziraphale couldn’t even remember the name of the film they’d seen, or the contents, only that Crowley had enjoyed it. It was astounding, how in over his head he still was, years later. Crowley’s laughter, the way the corners of his eyes crinkled when he smiled, his pulse fluttering in his neck when he threw his head back—nearly ten years together hadn’t diminished any of it. The sun still rose when Crowley looked at him, and Aziraphale, who hadn’t stood in the light in five centuries, couldn’t have given it up for his life.

The scent of frying food and spices filled Aziraphale’s nose as Crowley dragged him into a little restaurant on the way back to Soho and nudged him towards their usual table in the corner. Aziraphale watched him as he ordered food for himself and drinks for Aziraphale, who technically could eat human food but didn’t like to unless he could be sure of his next source of blood, and when Crowley met his eyes up with a half-smile on his face he smiled back.

“What are you looking at, angel?” Crowley said, quietly, intimately, and Aziraphale’s breath caught for a moment.

“You’re beautiful, my dear.” He answered simply, and Crowley made a disbelieving sound. “Oh hush, you know you are.”

Crowley looked past Aziraphale, out over the crowded but cozy little room full of other couples, families, all out on this night in the winter. He ran a hand through his hair, which had started to grey around his temples in the last several months. “I like when you tell me so.” He looked back at Aziraphale, smiled briefly and tightly, and took a sip of his drink.

Aziraphale’s eyes narrowed, his brain moving rapidly through the last several hours, trying to figure out if he needed to be concerned or not. He’d come to the conclusion that no, nothing specifically had happened, to his knowledge, and was about to ask if anything was wrong when Crowley said, “was there ever someone else?”

Aziraphale frowned. He opened his mouth and closed it again, thinking. “What brought this on?”

“Was there?”

“Of course there was.” Aziraphale snapped, raising an eyebrow.

“Good.” Crowley murmured. He looked relieved, somehow, and Aziraphale felt even more confused than he had done. “I don’t like the idea of you being alone.”

“Oh.” It was like someone had punched him, forced all the air from his lungs. “Oh, _Crowley_.”

“Don’t look at me like that, angel. I worry about you, is all.”

“ _You_ worry about _me_?”

Crowley shrugged, still not looking at him, his eyes roaming over the other patrons. “But if there have been others you’ll get along fine after I’m gone.”

Aziraphale leaned back in his seat, crossing his arms and fixing Crowley with a piercing look. “Is there something I should know about? Some rare and deadly medical condition you’ve failed to mention to me, perhaps? Are you planning another suicidally stupid run on that coven in Whitechapel?”

“What? No!” Crowley looked at him at last, aghast. “It’s just. Well, I’m getting old. And I worry.”

“You’re thirty-nine, my dear.” Aziraphale said gently.

“And it’s a minor miracle I’ve made it this long, between the kind of work I do and… everything else.” Crowley gestured at himself, and if Aziraphale had had blood of his own it would have chilled.

He reached across the table and took Crowley’s hand. “Crowley,” he murmured, “I promise you, I will not let anything happen to you. You are going to live to be very old, and die comfortable and content in bed, and neither biology nor society nor supernatural forces are going to deprive you of that while I have any say in it.”

Crowley squeezed his hand, gave him the same brief, brittle smile he’d done earlier, and cast about for a change of subject.

“Tell me about the others. People you’ve loved.”

The feeling of a weight on his chest was back. “Crowley, my dear, this isn’t—”

“We’ve been together for a decade, angel, I think I’m secure enough with you to talk about your past boyfriends.” Crowley said flippantly, a genuine grin spreading across his face. “Tell me what kinds of people you’ve been with. You’ve lived such a long time you must have known someone interesting at _some_ point.”

“Well,” Aziraphale started, then closed his mouth again as their waiter brought Crowley’s plate of food. He nodded to the man and he walked away, and Crowley raised his eyebrows, waiting for Aziraphale to resume speaking as he started on his dinner. Aziraphale swallowed, feeling something thick in his throat. “Well, I did meet Oscar Wilde once.”

 

It was early spring, and Aziraphale was resignedly anticipating daylight savings time and wondering how one went about proposing when one is a vampire and one’s partner is a human and both of you are queer and neither have any family to speak of. He’d been thinking about it on and off since Crowley had brought up (or rather, danced around) the topic of his own mortality, because he’d realized that night, as Crowley lay curled against him with his head on Aziraphale’s chest, that whatever this ended up being for him, it was clear Crowley wanted it to be the rest of his life. The idea was humbling and terrifying, because while Aziraphale had loved plenty of humans, he’d never tried to _keep_ one.

Oh, he’d wanted to, more than once. Especially after Michael had been killed, and Uriel and Gabriel and Raphael had relocated. He’d been alone for so long, and then he’d started to form attachments, and he’d known, always, that he couldn’t spend the rest of his life with someone, no matter how much it hurt to lose them.

He’d never turned anybody, and he wasn’t even sure Crowley would want that. Forever in human terms was a very different animal than forever to Aziraphale. And yet, Crowley seemed to want some version of that with him, whatever small infinity Aziraphale was willing to give. Was it incredibly selfish to presume such a thing?

Was that going to stop him?

Could he hold onto Crowley only to let him go again in thirty, forty, fifty years?

Aziraphale didn’t know the answers to those questions and he didn’t quite know how to go about finding them, either, so instead he kept an eye on the papers and his network and picked off criminals, and windowshopped for rings when he had opportunity.

His mind was made up for him by a phone call he received in March.

Crowley had been by in the early evening, just after the sun had set, to have dinner together (Aziraphale having fed on a serial killer two days previously and having an appointment with a terrorist around midnight). He’d told Aziraphale he’d be going on his nightly rounds, kissed him, and agreed to meet back at the shop around 2am to spend the rest of the night together. Aziraphale was getting ready to just lock up and leave Soho when his phone rang.

“Angel,” Crowley gasped, and fear shot through Aziraphale faster than he could think. “Angel, I’m…” he spluttered, coughed, and started to choke.

“Crowley, where are you? Tell me where you are, I’ll be there as soon as—”

“Notting Hill.” Crowley said, sounding like he was gritting his teeth. “Clarendon.” He let out another cough and a pitiful sound that made Aziraphale wince. “Hurry, angel.”

Aziraphale bolted out the door, leaving it wide open, and began to sprint. He thought as he ran, not for the first time, how inconvenient it was that vampires could neither turn into bats nor into mist as some superstitions said. Thankfully they could run a great deal faster than humans.

Aziraphale found Crowley sprawled on the ground, a pool of blood spreading out underneath him, staining his leather jacket and the high-collared shirt he wore.

“Oh, for _Heaven's_ sake, Crowley.”

Crowley let out a weak chuckle and his fingers twitched on the ground, and Aziraphale sank to his knees beside him, grasping Crowley’s hand in both of his own.

“Aziraphale.” He murmured, looking for all the world like he was pleased to see him and nothing more, not like he was bleeding out on a dark London sidestreet.

“My dear, what happened?” Aziraphale demanded, running deft hands over his chest, searching frantically for the wound.

“Shot.”

“You were _shot_? This wasn’t vampiric activity?”

“Nuh. Gang violence.” Crowley’s eyes slid closed. “Glad you’re here with me.”

“Of course I am, you called, so here I am.” Aziraphale was trying and failing to keep his tone low but was rapidly losing what little composure had brought him over here from the shop.

“Don’t want you to have to watch me die but—”

“You’re not going to die, don’t talk like that.”

“I jusssst wanted to see you one more time.” Crowley had started slurring his words, and Aziraphale, surveying the still spreading pool of blood, had to fight hard not to succumb to panic. You didn’t feed off human blood for five hundred years and not learn very precisely how much blood a person could lose before the chance of survival dropped to zero, and Aziraphale was wishing, very suddenly and acutely, that he did not possess such knowledge.

He felt the sob bubble up from his throat before he could stop it. “Oh, Crowley, don’t—”

“I love you, angel.” Crowley said, and Aziraphale felt hot tears spill down his cheeks.

“No.” He shook his head. “No, this isn’t fair, Crowley, I bought you a _ring_.” It was sitting beside his bed in the flat above the bookshop, in a little black leather box. “I can’t—Crowley, please.”

Crowley didn’t respond, and Aziraphale gathered him into his arms and held him close, shaking, pressing futile kisses against his forehead, his jaw, his neck, willing him to come back. He felt the faint, slowing pulse against his lips, and thought of the sun, and made up his mind.

When Crowley stirred against him some minutes later, Aziraphale clutched him tighter, a stream of muttered thanks and praise pouring from his lips for the benefit of God only knew.

“Angel?” Crowley said, his voice very hoarse, and Aziraphale shushed him, tucking his head under his chin.

“I’m so sorry, Crowley, I’m—”

“What—"

“I told you months ago that I’d loved other humans but the truth is I haven’t, not the same way I... Crowley, I’m sorry, I couldn’t—”

“Angel.” Crowley said, his voice a close approximation of soothing behind the raspy quality it had taken on from panting as he bled out on the ground. “It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” Aziraphale whispered, holding Crowley tighter still and feeling Crowley hug him back. “I didn’t… I’d meant to ask you, only I didn’t get the chance, and I couldn’t lose you.”

A hand came up, shaky but warm, and stroked his hair. “It’s alright, angel. We’re alright.” He pressed dry lips against Aziraphale’s throat.

“I turned you.” Aziraphale said, feeling horror and relief and guilt and fierce, possessive love battle for a place in his chest. “I was going to ask you to marry me.”

Crowley laughed, and pulled back to look into Aziraphale’s face. His eyes had changed, and Aziraphale’s gaze flickered from them to the crow’s feet at the corners to the grey hair at his temples, and he thought, ridiculously, inappropriately, that he’d never looked prettier.

“Do it now.” He said, a smile in his voice and on his lips.

“The ring’s at home.”

“ _Angel_.”

Aziraphale stared at him, let the nickname and the force of Crowley’s gaze wash over him, pressed a brief kiss to his lips. They were still on the ground, covered in Crowley’s blood and the slush in the street, Crowley pulled all but into his lap.

“Anthony Crowley,” he began, very seriously, watching Crowley’s grin widen and feeling his own smile mirror it, “Crowley, my dear, will you marry me?”

Crowley’s smile could have lit up the city. “You’re stuck with me now, angel.” He said.

“I hope you know what it is I’ve done.”

“Oh, I do.” Crowley whispered against his lips, and then he was kissing him like it was their last night on earth instead of the first of many, many more. “I do.”


End file.
